


Mobilizing

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft-centric, POV Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-10-09 15:01:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10414800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: An unexpected reaction leaves Greg with an opportunity he never thought he'd have.





	1. Chapter 1

To Greg’s astonishment, Mycroft began to cry. His face crumpled a little as the tears welled in his eyes, then it smoothed out, though the tears continued to roll down his cheeks. Greg was embarrassed for him, but Mycroft continued to look at Greg, as though waiting for a comment.

“Errrrr,” Greg started, not entirely certain where this sentence was going, “Want to grab a coffee, then?” He was thinking Mycroft might like to get away from this crime scene, grim as it was. Mycroft inclined his head, which Greg took for assent. Greg threw a quick text to Donovan, then walked with Mycroft to a quiet bar around the corner from the action.

“Coffee?” Mycroft murmured as they took a booth in the back of the nearly deserted bar.

Greg shrugged. “Coffee as a concept. I’m having a beer myself.” The waitress approached, and Mycroft ordered a Scotch. They sat in silence while the drinks came, the butterflies that usually accompanied Greg’s proximity to Mycroft having fled at his surprising earlier response.

“I’ve found some things trigger unexpected emotional responses since the incident at Sherrinford.” Mycroft said without preamble.

Greg frowned, trying to remember what he’d said immediately before Mycroft’s tears. “Something about…”

Mycroft quoted him verbatim. “’It appears she met him here to break things off. He didn’t take it too well, killed her and then himself.’”

Greg nodded, remembering the words out of his own mouth. “Sorry.” He offered, though he didn’t really understand why that would have had such an effect on Mycroft.

“No matter. I could hardly have expected you to anticipate my response.” Mycroft smiled, a sad little turn up of the corners of his mouth.

“Yeah.” Greg replied.

“It appears the context can be as important as the words,” Mycroft murmured almost to himself.

Unsure what to say to this, Greg tried, “Better to have loved and lost, right?” then immediately regretted it, as Mycroft’s face again broke, tears running down his face. Mutely, Greg offered him some crumpled napkins, but Mycroft declined, using his own handkerchief.

“God, I’m sorry, Mycroft.” Greg found himself apologising again. He hesitated then went on, “Look, maybe you could give me some idea of what to avoid. I’d hate to keep putting my foot in it like this.”

Mycroft, who had been drying his face and now discretely blew his nose before refolding his handkerchief and stowing it inside his coat, spoke quietly but clearly. “Unrequited love is a particularly difficult topic, Gregory.”

Greg blinked. “You’ve never called me by my name before,” he said.

“I know.”

Greg asked, “Why now, then?”

“This is a far more personal conversation than we have ever engaged in. I felt it was appropriate now.” Mycroft’s response was as formal as usual, though his face seemed more relaxed than it generally did.

The waitress, at Greg’s raised hand, had brought another round, and they clinked glasses, Greg offering the toast, “To me keeping my mouth shut, then.”

“That would make for difficult conversation, Gregory.” Mycroft’s response was dryly humorous, and Greg grinned, the usual flutter returning now that Mycroft seemed more or less back to normal, though in a more relaxed version. Probably the midday Scotch, Greg thought.

“Okay, then, in the interest of fair play, we’ll say, ‘to shared experiences.’” Greg knew this was a bold statement, but in the quiet of the bar, they seemed to be cocooned in their own little world, the outside being a galaxy far, far away.

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose at this. “You too, then?”

“Indeed.” Greg said, locking eyes with Mycroft. He hadn’t made it to DI without some ability to read people, and Mycroft Holmes, usually a closed book, had made several interesting statements, both verbal and otherwise, that gave Greg’s intuition a nudge. The nudge had sent the butterflies cascading into each other throughout Greg’s insides. Another advantage of his job, however, was knowing how to talk to people, to read a conversation and know the best time to change a topic or press for more information. Gently, gently it goes, he thought to himself.

“The problem with the ‘better to have loved and lost’ statement,” Greg said, keeping his eyes locked intensely on Mycroft’s, “is that it assumes that love offered will be accepted, even if only for a short while. The fear of rejection,” he sucked air in here, shaking his head, “that can be,” he paused, partly searching, partly for dramatic effect, “crippling.” Greg watched Mycroft nod his head, the truth of the statement obviously resonating.

“Little steps.” Greg said quietly. He extended one hand, fingers curled under except for his pinkie, opened out like an offering. The same fear was in him, but he knew this was the moment to make the offer he’d been keeping hidden for a long time. If he was wrong, the rejection would be gentle, and he could lock it inside this alternate reality, leaving it behind when he returned to the real world outside the bar.

As he shifted his hand towards the middle of the table, he dropped his gaze, his courage failing him a little, unable to watch Mycroft. He could see from the changed angle of the reddish hair that Mycroft’s eyes had been drawn to the motion too, and Greg flicked his eyes up to see Mycroft’s own eyes wide at the small gesture. The gesture may have been small but the implications were big, even for Greg – he could only guess at the magnitude of this for Mycroft, for whom acknowledged emotion had been foreign for so long. Greg was patient, and he could see the conflict within Mycroft. Oddly this gave him more confidence – surely if he had been wrong, Mycroft’s rejection would have been swift. If he was wrestling with something inside, wasn’t that a sign that at least part of him wanted to accept Greg?

These thoughts and more ran through his head, his hand sitting in the centre of the table. After a few minutes, Greg’s heart began to sink – he should withdraw his hand, taking this lack of acceptance as a gentle rejection and move on with his life. Just as he tensed his muscles to do so, Mycroft shifted his weight, one of the hands cradling his Scotch twitching off the glass and sliding hesitantly across the table. Greg’s heart pounded even harder as he watched the progress of it until Mycroft’s pointer finger curled over his own pinkie. Greg squeezed his finger gently and raised his eyes to meet Mycroft’s, which were wide in disbelief. His mouth was open, breathing visible as he drew in the oxygen required by his pumping heart, and Greg thought dazedly that he might get to kiss that mouth soon.

“Well.” Mycroft managed, then smiled, a genuine, though uncertain smile. Greg returned it in spades, the brilliant grin holding nothing back. He wanted Mycroft to see how happy he was, and there wasn’t a smile broad enough – so this would have to do.

“It seems we really do have some shared experiences.” Greg said, and Mycroft blushed.

“I should get back to work,” Greg said, hoping his boss wouldn’t come too close, the smell of two pints of beer certainly on his breath. “But tonight, if you are free?”

Mycroft had already pulled his phone out with his free hand, and as Greg finished speaking, he smiled and replaced it in his pocket.

“I am free,” he replied, “as are you, for the rest of the day.”

“Really.” Greg said, scepticism in his voice.

Mycroft looked a little worried, which Greg took to mean he was majorly upset. “I hope I did not overstep, Gregory, I just…” Greg watched him closely, then realised Mycroft’s concern.

“We could go for lunch,” Greg said. “Hate to put us on hiatus already, even for a few hours.” The relieved nod from Mycroft confirmed Greg’s suspicion – that Mycroft was worried that Greg would change his mind if he had the afternoon to think. A little insecure, Greg thought to himself. Okay.

+++

After a sightly awkward conversation about the logistics of the afternoon, they agreed that they would both take the car to Greg’s place, where Mycroft could work from the car, while Greg had a quick shower and changed before they headed to Mycroft’s home. Mycroft assured Greg that he would use the time to rearrange meetings and the like, and that it was fine for Greg to take his time. The crime scene hadn’t been anything too new in terms of the gore, but it always seemed to stick to his clothes, and Greg did not want to bring his work back with him, especially today. He hummed to himself as he scrubbed clean, brushed his teeth and even gargled mouthwash, wanting no part of that beer to make itself known. If he was lucky, there was a snog in store for him today. The thought made him grin as he chose his favourite jeans, the ones he knew made his arse look good, and a deep blue jumper that complemented his silver hair.

Half an hour after leaving the car, Greg was back. Mycroft immediately finished what he was doing and turned to greet Greg, his smile widening as he swept his gaze down the newly changed man.

“Better?” Mycroft asked.

“You tell me.” Greg flirted, delighted to see a flush colour Mycroft’s cheeks.

“I meant to ask if you felt better after showering away the crime scene.” Mycroft explained, and Greg chuckled.

“I know, I’m just teasing. Yes, I always feel better. There’s something about a murder scene that just sticks in your clothes, you know?” Greg was surprised when Mycroft agreed.

“Our work can be messy.” Mycroft commented, and Greg was curious, though he didn’t ask for details. It wasn’t long before they arrived at a tall home in Mayfair, and Mycroft alighted first, holding the door for Greg. Past the extensive security, the home was as beautiful on the inside as the outside – spotless, with understated but expensive furnishings. Greg felt out of place already, and they weren’t out of the entrance hall.

“This is the family home,” Mycroft explained as he hung their jackets. “Given that it would stand empty most of the year if I lived elsewhere, it seemed more sensible for me to live here than find another location.”

“It’s beautiful.” Greg replied honestly.

Mycroft looked around as though seeing it anew. “It has been well maintained.” He agreed. “Are you hungry?”

Greg nodded – it was past lunchtime now, and he’d missed half of his breakfast due to the murder callout. Mycroft lead the way into the kitchen, which was modern and enormous.

“I could cook, or we could order in.” he offered.

“You can cook?” Greg asked.

Mycroft nodded. “Not as often as I’d like, but yes.” He opened the fridge and looked at the contents, mentally determining what he could make. “Pizza, or salmon and a salad…I could put together handrolls if you’d like?”

Greg nodded at this last suggestion, and Mycroft started taking ingredients out of the fridge.

“You do this often?” Greg asked, seating himself at the breakfast bar and watching Mycroft work with a practiced ease. He nodded as he worked. “It’s easy, requires almost no dishes and is a much healthier alternative to take away.” The bamboo mat rolled firmly around the rice filled nori, and Mycroft wet the seaweed, ensuring it stuck firmly to itself before relaxing his grip.

“How do you get the time to do all the preparation?” Greg asked as Mycroft made several combinations.

“I cheat.” Mycroft said, and the unexpected honestly made Greg laugh out loud. The sound echoed off the hard surfaces of the kitchen, and he stopped, apologising for the noise.

“Not at all.” Mycroft said. “I’ve never heard you laugh like that before. I’ll have to be humorous more often.” Greg grinned at this, and Mycroft explained, “Anthea organises for my refrigerator to be filled with a predetermined list of foodstuffs. They rotate the items as needed so there are always ingredients to make something, should I require it.”

Greg nodded. Another level of wealth, he thought, feeling more acutely the gap between their lives. He’d known it was there of course, but the casual way Mycroft talked about having people do tasks for him in a personal capacity highlighted it even more.

They stood at the bench, in the end, eating the sushi and talking about food and cooking. While Greg didn’t love to cook, he was capable, as a single man had to be if he didn’t want to live off pizza and beer forever. After their mid-morning drinks, the sushi was perfect, and they both opted for tea afterwards rather than another alcoholic beverage. Mycroft filled the kettle and, shooting a self-conscious look at Greg, divested himself of his suit jacket and cufflinks, rolling his sleeves up over his pale forearms. The simple motions proclaimed intimacy more explicitly than Greg would have expected, and he swallowed, finding his mouth dry all of a sudden. His eyes, which had been watching Mycroft’s long fingers as they rolled up his sleeves, met Mycroft’s, and there must have been something there because Mycroft stopped, frozen. Greg slid from his chair and moved around the breakfast bar, walking slowly towards Mycroft, who walked backwards until he stood against the bench, eyes wide, breathing audible. Their bodies were close, almost touching, and Greg was eye to eye with Mycroft. Greg’s gaze had not left Mycroft, and now his hands came up slowly to take hold of Mycroft’s tie. He tugged, pulling the knot loose, then finding it stuck under the waistcoat. Still looking into those incredible eyes, Greg’s fingers skated down to the first button, eyes questioning as he played with it. Mycroft jerked his head _yes_ , and Greg popped each button out, finding the tie-bar which had foiled him. He finished all the buttons but left the waistcoat, returning to his first objective – removing Mycroft’s tie, opening the first two buttons on his shirt. The skin there was almost translucent, and from so close, a wave of scent and warmth flowed over Greg. It was delicious, he thought in a daze.

“Better?” Greg’s voice was so low it was almost a growl, and Mycroft made a small whimper at the noise. He nodded fervently. Greg dropped the tie on the bench and made to step back, not wanting to push Mycroft. As it was the atmosphere had ramped up about a thousand percent and he needed a breather himself. Before he could do more than shift his weight, Mycroft’s hand was on his arm, hot through his shirtsleeve and jumper. Greg stopped, his heart hammering. Mycroft’s fingers were digging into his arm, and Greg raised his questioning eyes to Mycroft.

“Don’t go.” Mycroft whispered, his warm breath floating across Greg’s skin. With the fingers of his free hand, Greg traced the skin of Mycroft’s neck, dipping into the notch at the base of his throat, where his tie had sat.

“Freckles.” Greg murmured, and followed the flush as it rose up Mycroft’s throat, fingers trailing along jawline until he could lay his palm along it, his thumb brushing Mycroft’s pink cheekbone. Mycroft’s lips had parted as his breathing stuttered, the sensation of Greg’s hand on his face interrupting his diaphragm’s rhythm. “I love freckles.” Greg whispered, his lips trailing over the outer edge of Mycroft’s ear. He felt the shiver as it passed through Mycroft, sliding his lips across the smooth cheek, seeking Mycroft’s open mouth with his own. When Greg’s mouth met Mycroft’s, they both groaned, fingers gripping into fabric as twin strikes of pleasure hit them at the same time. The sharp intake of Greg’s breath was matched by Mycroft’s, their bodies searching for the same air. Foreheads pressed together, they breathed for a moment, eyes closed, before Greg  leaned his mouth forward again, settling his lips across Mycroft’s. This time they both breathed deeply through their noses, lips glued together. Mycroft’s clutching fingers drew Greg closer, and their bodies aligned, melting together as their lips moved together. Greg tentatively ran his tongue across Mycroft’s lower lip, licking the soft skin, relishing the breathy moans from Mycroft. When their tongues touched, lightening seemed to flare between them. Mycroft gasped and jerked back, eyes wide and mouth agape. Greg’s mind was fuzzy with arousal, but his eyes opened, though the lids were heavy. He blinked blearily, finally registering Mycroft’s stricken expression.

“Mycroft?” he asked, leaning back, giving the other man space. His voice was low and thick, and he swallowed. Mycroft’s eyes were wide, the pupils dilated, his mouth open as he panted. His face was a confused mix of expressions – Greg saw desire, fear and despair. Overall, he thought, Mycroft looked lost.

“Hey,” Greg said, voice quiet, “that was pretty full-on.” He leaned back against the island opposite, allowing Mycroft space while making it clear he wouldn’t leave. He watched as Mycroft struggled to compose himself, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. After a moment, he opened his eyes and looked at Greg, other emotions crowded out by despair and sorrow.

“I’m sorry.” Mycroft said quietly. “I understand if you’ll want to leave.”

Greg smiled a little. “I’m not leaving, Mycroft. That was powerful for me too. I get the feeling we might be like that…” he trailed off, watching Mycroft as he listened and processed Greg’s words.

“You’re not leaving?” Mycroft repeated softly, and Greg shook his head patiently. With a sigh, Mycroft’s shoulders slumped. Greg stepped forward and Mycroft met him in the middle, burying his face in the silver hair. Their arms wound about each other, and Greg exhaled. He would have to be gentle with Mycroft if he wanted this to work. It was going to be an intense ride, but he knew it would be worthwhile.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to popular demand...chapter 2.
> 
> Don't worry, I'm not so mean as to leave it there. Chapter 3 will be along in good time.

“This is definitely better than paperwork.” Greg decided, tucking one foot under his leg as he faced Mycroft. He and Mycroft had settled themselves on the sofa, Mycroft sitting upright, his feet stretching out onto the footstool in front of him, while Greg sat at a right angle, leaning against the arm of the sofa. They held tea, a second kettle having been boiled after they missed the boat on the first one. It was warm and quiet in here, to Greg’s satisfaction, and much more comfortable than the cold NSY office full of the noise of so many people.

Mycroft smiled at him but said nothing. He was still a little skittish since their kiss, Greg had noticed. He wondered what Mycroft’s experience had been to leave him so uncertain of his own emotions. Clearly Sherrinford had affected him deeply, but whether it had brought out previous memories or raised his awareness of his inexperience, Greg had no idea. There was no way he was going to ask, either – it didn’t take a Detective to know that Mycroft would have to be the one to bring up that particular topic of conversation.

“Have you always enjoyed cooking?” Greg asked, deciding on a more benign area.

Mycroft shook his head. “When I was younger I used to sit in our kitchen and keep the cook company, before Sherlock was born.” He explained, a faint smile crossing his lips at the memory. “Once I was sent away to school, however, it was discouraged as an inappropriate pastime. It is only recently that I have had my kitchen appropriately appointed and made the arrangements with Anthea.” He shot a glance at Greg. “It’s a good thing you agreed to one of the suggestions I made, they’re the only thing I’ve learned so far.”

“You seemed pretty confident with the hand rolls.” Greg replied.

Mycroft shrugged. “I’d rather perfect one skill before moving on to the next.”

“Even if it means eating the same thing for a week?” Greg teased, and was rewarded with a small smile.

“Even so.” Mycroft admitted, and Greg returned the smile. A comfortable silence descended over them, yet Greg was hesitant to ask Mycroft anything too personal. Christ, the kiss they’d shared had been electric, and even with his 30 odd years of kissing experience it had been top ten, surely. Mycroft had seemed completely overwhelmed, though, and Greg knew he’d have to find out a little more about his past before they went any further.

“Mycroft,” Greg started, then paused, and the other man turned to him, eyebrows raised in mute answer. “Please let me know if this isn’t an okay question to ask, but what happened at Sherrinford? In general terms, I mean.” Greg hastened to add as Mycroft stiffened, the panic evident on his face. Greg leaned forward, a reassuring hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. He’d been aiming for the forearm, but the exposed skin would have been more distracting than reassuring, so he’d changed course instead. “Mycroft I don’t mean to pry but it clearly had a huge impact on you. I’ve never seen you as…expressive as you’ve been today.” He stopped, not wanting to push, giving Mycroft time to consider his words.

“It was…” Mycroft began, then cleared his throat and began again, addressing his tea rather than turning again to Greg. “It was not something I had foreseen. Eurus is far more dangerous than I anticipated. It was my actions that gave her the opportunity to manipulate those around her, with catastrophic results. Not only was my brother put in impossible situations, I was also tested.” The silence rang loud between them until he spoke again, more quietly. “It made me reassess my choices, Gregory, in a way which does not sit comfortably with me.”

Greg nodded, though he didn’t really know what Mycroft was talking about. Clearly, their sister had wreaked havoc on the Holmes brothers – John had been answering Greg’s texts to Sherlock with decreasing patience, saying he’d be ready when he was ready. Until today, Greg had not realised how much Mycroft had also been affected, and indeed targeted, it seemed, while at Sherrinford.

“You blame yourself.” Greg noted, and Mycroft nodded silently. “And these choices you’ve made, do you mean about the way you’ve dealt with your sister, or on a more personal level?”

Mycroft fiddled with his mug before answering in the same quiet voice. “Emotion and I have not sat well together for a long time, Gregory. Difficult decisions regarding Eurus had to be made when I was very young, and my guilt almost overwhelmed me. I had to suppress it in order to function, and as it turned out, that made me perfect for the employment in which I find myself today. Unfortunately, the separation of guilt from other emotions is not simple, and the resurrection of that emotion so recently has dragged others to the surface.” He frowned. “I find myself quite unable to regulate them.”

Greg nodded. He was beginning to understand now why Mycroft presented the face he did, and that there was a very different man underneath who was now swamped with a barrel of new emotions and no way to contain them.

“Have you sat with them at all?” Greg asked, and the confusion on Mycroft’s face told him the answer was a combination of ‘what are you talking about?’ and it’s corollary, ‘no’.

“It’s a technique my therapist uses.” Greg expanded, and Mycroft looked surprised. “Oh don’t give me that look, there’s no way you didn’t know I see someone.” Mycroft’s expression conceded the point, and Greg went on, “Whenever I encounter something I’m not comfortable with, he asks me to sit with it for a few minutes. Allow myself to experience it, see if it brings up any other emotions, thoughts, memories – it sound a bit weird but it helps me get my head straight when there’s too many things going on.” Greg explained. Mycroft still looked doubtful, so Greg took both their tea cups, placing them on the side table, before scooting over to sit next to Mycroft. Their bodies were not quite touching, but the heat from Mycroft’s thigh was warming Greg’s across the void. Greg placed his own hand palm up against his jeans, waiting for Mycroft to accept the gesture (or not). A long pale hand settled atop his, and Greg’s fingers interlaced with the other fingers immediately, grateful that Mycroft was prepare to try this with him.

“Let’s start with the guilt you mentioned.” Greg’s voice was quiet, as he did his best to imitate the soothing tone his therapist used when he spoke. Mycroft nodded a tiny acceptance, then closed his eyes, breathing in deeply. He’d barely spoken, and Greg hoped he really was okay with this, having made neither protest nor verbal agreement. “Find the guilt and relax the part of yourself that’s squashing it down.” Greg instructed. “Feel it, let it wash over you. It probably won’t be nice, or comfortable, but sit with it for a bit. See what else comes up. You can tell me if you want, or not, it’s up to you, but see what else there is wrapped up with this emotion.” Greg sat quietly now, letting Mycroft sort through the emotion he had labelled guilt. He wondered if Mycroft would say anything at all, or lock the whole mess away in his mind palace. Did he even have a mind palace? John had described Sherlock’s, and Greg just assumed that he’d learned the technique from his older brother.

As Greg pondered this, Mycroft spoke, his voice thick with regret and the tears which were streaming down his face. “Guilt. And…and anger.” He stopped, and Greg could see him struggling with his now innate tendancy to contain himself.

“What else?” Greg asked encouragingly.

Mycroft spoke slowly at first. “Why was this my responsibility? I was too young, too naïve to bear such a decision. Why should I shoulder this in silence and solitude? I was frightened of what she might do if I allowed her freedom, but how could I lock her away with no contact at all? More guilt, for so many things – the lies, the half-truths, the times I gave in to her requests, my abhorrence of her presence, the pain she caused my brother because I couldn’t bear to stand up to her earlier…” Mycroft’s voice trailed off for several moments, then resumed again, still bearing the evidence of his grief. “So many lives lost, at my direct hand. Regret for her wasted life, the grief I saw on my parent’s faces so often, the bond broken with my brother. Fear again, for Sherlock – how can I keep him safe, explain my concern without mentioning Eurus, of whom he had no memory? Fear that he will make my mistakes, bringing emotion into his deductive processes; and now, fear that he will not, for I have seen where that path leads. Where to from here? How can my family move forward from this? What to be done about Eurus, apart from the increased security? So many questions, but where to start. Guilt again, for the overtures I have ignored, shouldered coldly away in order to protect myself…” Mycroft’s ramblings finally died away, and Greg squeezed his hand tightly as they sat. The tears continued to flow for a few moments, until Mycroft shifted, removing a handkerchief from his pocket, self-consciously blowing his nose and drying his eyes.

“Wow.” Greg murmured. Mycroft opened his eyes and looked at him, and the depth of the understatement brought a watery grin to both their faces.

“I didn’t expect all that.” Greg admitted.

“Neither did I.” Mycroft agreed. He paused, considering something. “I think, however, that I feel better, now that I have examined this emotion. I have a list of questions to consider at a later date, and as such they are no longer weighing on my consciousness.”

Greg nodded, still wondering about the mind palace, but not daring to ask. Perhaps another time. Greg flexed his hand, cool air brushing across the space now devoid of Mycroft’s warm skin. He clenched his fist, resting it on his knee, wondering where the rest of the day would now go. It was early evening, the daylight beginning to slowly fade. As Greg considered the options, he felt Mycroft shift beside him. From the corner of his eye, he watched the other man pull his feet in from the foot stool, planting them on the ground instead.

“Greg?” Mycroft’s voice was low but steady. Greg looked across at him, the lamplight casting shadows, though his expression was still clear. He looked unsure, Greg thought, wondering what Mycroft was about to say. Was he going to ask Greg to leave, or perhaps suggest another time. To Greg’s surprise, Mycroft turned his own head, meeting his eyes, and smiled. “I haven’t given you the tour. There are whole rooms in this house you have not yet seen.”

Greg blinked, realising Mycroft’s hand was now palm up on his own knee, as Greg’s had been earlier – an invitation, as Greg’s had been. Reaching out, Greg’s fingers slid into Mycroft’s, both tightening their grip and sitting for a moment before rising, Greg stretching out the kinks that always seemed to form whenever he sat down for more than five minutes. He smiled at Mycroft, making no effort to move. Mycroft would lead the way, Greg felt, the atmosphere comfortable and warm. There was a confidence in Mycroft that had not been there before, and Greg wondered if sharing his intimate thoughts about Eurus had given him confidence in Greg’s steadfastness. If he’d stayed, despite seeing Mycroft’s self-perceived weaknesses, perhaps he was worth taking a risk for. Mentally, Greg shook himself. He had to stop analysing people. It was a habit he sometimes brought home from work, and it could lead to his making assumptions. Now was certainly not the time for that, of all things.

Mycroft tugged gently on Greg’s hand, and they moved together into the entranceway. Mycroft shot a quick glance at Greg before heading up the stairs, taking a hard left into the first door.

“This is my entertainment room.” He explained, a little redundantly. The room was set up like a movie theatre with reclining seats and state of the at projection equipment. Greg nodded, once again quashing the feeling that he did not belong amongst such affluence. They moved along the rest of the rooms on this level, few as they were; a gym, a library, a guest suite; all tasteful and understated. Mycroft offered few words, Greg even fewer; both knew why they were really on this level, and finally there was no escaping it. Only one door remained, and Greg squeezed Mycroft’s hand as they approached. Mycroft hesitated, and Greg released his hand, stepping sideways and behind Mycroft. The smooth fabric was cool as Greg slid his hands onto Mycroft’s hips, a much easier prospect now that his jacket was downstairs and waistcoat still hung loose. He kept his touch light, but the hitch in Mycroft’s breath told Greg that he could feel their presence.

“We’re already like fireworks, Mycroft.” Greg whispered, deliberately letting his breath run across the pale nape of the neck right in front of him. “We can wait, but it’s going to be the same, whenever it happens.” Ever so gently, Greg kissed the skin in front of him, pressing his lips to the warmth, the short ginger hairs tickling his nose. He kissed again, tasting the skin and feeling the shudder run through Mycroft.

“Greg…” Mycroft whispered, his head falling forward. The words were soft, but clear. “I don’t know if…”

“Together.” Greg replied, hoping that Mycroft’s newfound courage would not fail him now. Regardless of how long they waited, Greg thought, theirs would be a spectacular event, the kiss in the kitchen had shown him that. Right now Greg did not want to push any further, so he waited, fingers still holding Mycroft’s hips, breath ghosting across his skin. The shift of his weight forward sent disappointment carding through Greg, thinking Mycroft was easing away; only when the door handle clicked did he realise that Mycroft was, in fact, opening the door to the only room as yet unexplored – his bedroom.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dudes. Seriously. This did not go the way I thought it would. Don't worry, nothing totally left of field happens, but you'll notice that there will be another chapter after this one, because literally NONE of the things I'd planned to happen actually happen in this chapter. Anyway, read it and you'll see what I mean.

Greg took a deep breath as Mycroft allowed the door to swing open. He could see that the same restrained elegance flowed through this room as the rest of the house, though his view was obscured by the back of Mycroft’s head. Greg’s hands were still resting on the hips in front of him, and he didn’t move, intuition telling him Mycroft should take the lead from here. Mycroft had seemed more confident earlier, offering him the tour of his home, but his hesitation now whispered to the copper’s instinct in Greg. _Something has changed._ If Mycroft decided they should go and have another cuppa instead, that was okay, Greg told himself, though a large part of him wanted desperately to step forward with Mycroft into that luxurious bedroom. The vulnerability he’d glimpsed in the bar then borne full witness to earlier, was proof of a breathtaking level of trust this man had placed in Greg’s hands. He had shown his weakness to Greg, placing his fragile spirit in Greg’s hands. His emotional wounds ran deep, and though Greg knew nothing would heal him so quickly, he wanted nothing more than to hold Mycroft and love him and show him that he was worthy of that and so much more.

But Mycroft had to be ready to accept it or it would all be for naught. Greg knew this, both as a man and as a veteran of psychological counselling. He’d been seeing someone on and off since his first divorce, twenty odd years ago, before he’d made it out of a constable’s uniform, even. Another divorce, the challenges of Sherlock, his ‘battle with the bottle’ as his brother liked to describe it; each had been worked through, analysed, planned against. No matter who he saw or what the problem was, there was one constant: ‘this will only work if you are willing to accept the help.’ Greg had fought himself for a long time, but the real progress had only come with acceptance that yes, he needed a hand figuring out this stuff. So if Mycroft was still fighting it, Greg would be hurling himself against a brick wall for all the good he’d do.

And so they stood at the entrance, Greg’s breath ghosting over Mycroft’s neck, his hands firm on the slim hips. Seconds ticked by, the sound of the door whooshing open fading until silence fell again. Greg could hear himself breathing, and he counted breaths…five…ten… As he reached seventeen, Mycroft shifted his weight, turning on the spot. Greg let his hands lift, then settle again on Mycroft’s hips. Mycroft’s eyes met Greg’s, and a whirl of emotion moved too fast for Greg to identify. Mycroft had decided on something, or he wouldn’t have moved. Greg didn’t speak, allowing Mycroft to set the pace, though his heart sped up as soon as Mycroft opened his mouth.

“You are the first person I’ve brought here.” Mycroft’s voice was quiet, his eyes pinned to Greg’s. His face flushed as he clarified, “There have been…others…but never in here.” Greg nodded in understanding; this space was important to Mycroft, as private as the thoughts he had shared earlier.

“Do you…I mean, we could go back downstairs, if this is too much…” Greg offered haltingly.

“No.” Mycroft replied right away, and for all the nervousness and uncertainty in his eyes, his voice was firm. “It may indeed be too much, depending on what… _happens_ ,” he finally said, “but I don’t want to hide from it again.” His fingers shook as they came up to brush Greg’s face, and the gentle flutter against his cheek made his eyes drift closed. Mycroft’s trembling fingers explored the curve of his face slowly, stuttering along the roughness of his jawline, leaving a trail of fireworks in their wake. Greg found himself breathing deeply, the quiet intimacy demanding more oxygen than he would have expected for such a sedentary moment. For the lack of movement, his heat was racing; it was as though Mycroft, having exposed himself to be seen so clearly by Greg was now determined to see him, really _see_ him. Greg opened his eyes and as he expected, Mycroft’s eyes were intent on him, watching the path his fingers were taking along the olive skin. No one had every examined him with such intensity, Greg thought. As though he was cataloguing not only the surface but the underlying structures and systems, down to the corners of his very soul. An irrational fear rose up in Greg, the fear that Mycroft would see the hidden parts of him and retreat in disgust.

Instinctively he looked away, hoping to hide it from the man before him.

As he did so, Greg realised that Mycroft must have had the same struggle within himself today. He could have easily slipped away from the crime scene and into his car; even if Greg had noticed the tears he would have been tactful enough not to mention it. Given the option, though, Mycroft had elected to let his emotions be seen, to let Greg in. Not just once, but again this afternoon, when his trembling palm had met Greg’s and he had voiced the deepest fears and insecurities he had held so close for so long. And a third time just now, when he’d said clearly that he was not going to hide any more. Another powerful wave of self-recrimination washed over Greg, and the strength Mycroft must have possessed struck him once again. If he could do it, Greg resolved, straightening his shoulders determinedly, so can I. I can have the strength to show him my faults, to offer him the same precious gift as he has already offered me.

Mycroft’s fingers stilled when Greg’s eyes shifted away, though the pale hand still shaped the side of Greg’s face, the warmth of his palm heating the air between them. Deliberately, Greg drew his eyes back to Mycroft, leaving his defences up for a moment before allowing them to crumble. He let his insecurities show, the uncertainty about his scarred body, his often tortured sleep; the imperfection of his words and tendency to be cavalier about the more macabre aspects of his job. The doubt about his suitability as anyone’s partner anymore bubbled up, too: could he provide what Mycroft needed, or would his inadequate support send Mycroft tumbling deeper into the abyss from which he’d so recently emerged?

“Oh, Greg,” Mycroft whispered, eyes softening, his palm closing the distance to rest against his jaw. A twist of his lips was all the acknowledgement Greg could muster, the emotion like molasses in the air. Mycroft tightened his hand on Greg’s jaw, bringing him gently forward until their foreheads touched. They leaned against each other, drawing strength from the contact.

“I think we might be more similar than we thought, Mycroft.” Greg whispered. “I’ve spent a lot of time in therapy, a _lot_ ,” he said emphatically, “it doesn’t negate my emotions, I’m just more used to dealing with them.” He collected his thoughts, trying to put them in some sort of order. Mycroft didn’t speak, waiting for Greg to continue, his breathing shaky. “Me, I’m never sure I’m good at all this relationship stuff. Two wives who left without much warning or explanation made me question a lot of things, like how I express things and do I listen enough, talk too much? I joke about work and wake with nightmares, is that a weird combination?” The question was rhetorical, and Greg swallowed before continuing to share the words he pondered in the dark hours. “Sometimes I don’t talk, really talk, for days. How can I support someone else when I’m working on my own shit? Cause I need to work on it, and I do, but what if…someone needs me to support them, and I can’t do both, will I chose me? Let them fall?” His voice shook a little as he voiced the words that came to him in the dark, often after he’d woken tangled and sweaty from the amplified horror in his mind. “Am I that selfish?” Speaking it aloud made it more real somehow, not to mention the presence of another person, someone he was just getting to know and here he was, spilling his guts with things he hadn’t told even his therapist, and he’d been seeing her for three years now.

His eyes were closed tightly now, the pressure of Mycroft’s forehead against his own anchoring him. Greg’s sense of his own body was reduced to that small patch, and he concentrated on it, on the stability it offered him against the roiling motion of his insides. He was very aware of the questions he’d just presented to Mycroft, of their constant weight in his gut. Over the years he had alluded to some of them to various degrees; each of his therapists had assured him that it was completely normal for self-doubts to be present, but none had known the depth to which Greg had pondered these ideas. He often felt them pressing forth as they sensed his weakness when a small error or misunderstanding gave him pause to doubt himself. Some therapy techniques worked; other times only exhaustion or booze worked, though never well or for long. Right now, though, the warmth and constancy of Mycroft were doing better than anything he’d tried. The questions were out, which somehow made them more manageable than when he’d fought to contain them. Mycroft had not run screaming into the night, as the small malicious voice had told him would happen; instead, they stood together, their exposed fears and flaws strengthening their bond.

Greg breathed deeply, unprepared for the upheaval of this short conversation. Somehow their dynamic had shifted significantly in just a few moments. No longer was he the more confident yet restrained partner, hoping not to scare off the more emotionally frail and less certain partner in Mycroft. As the opened their eyes and looked at each other once again, Greg felt that he and Mycroft were at last equals. He could see the mirror of his own emotions in Mycroft’s eyes, now devoid of the shutters that had guarded him for so long. Each wanted to care for the other, to reassure as well as give pleasure and explore. Greg could feel the heat behind his own softer emotions, and knew that the same explosiveness that had taken them both by surprise in the kitchen was still present. With the raw honesty on both sides now, it was likely to be an even more powerful reaction when they did come together again.

Greg smiled, feeling more relaxed and calm than he had all day. Mycroft’s answering smile was brilliant, and the light chased up to his eyes, full of affection and desire.

“Won’t you come in?” Mycroft asked softly, stepping back into the room. He slid his hand from Greg’s face, allowing his arm to extend as he moved away. Greg’s smile grew as his own hand dropped from Mycroft’s waist to grip the proffered hand and step, at last, across the threshold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See what I mean? Totally a character exploration rather than the sexy-times I'd planned. Anyway, now that Greg is FINALLY in Mycroft's bedroom, I-promise-cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die that they will get naked and funky next chapter. None of this 'we'll just cuddle', I swear (with whipped cream and a cherry on top). Thanks for bearing with me while Greg gets all introspective. He's a man of layers, I'm telling you. <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally...

As Greg stepped across the threshold, he squeezed Mycroft’s hand, as much to reassure himself as Mycroft.  The calm that had overtaken him still pervade his body, and he felt lighter, unencumbered by his usual worries and hang-ups. He and Mycroft had opened their hearts to each other, finding kindred spirits; there was nothing for which he needed to apologise or feel ashamed.

When Mycroft stopped, halfway between the door and the bed, Greg squeezed his hand again, tugging gently to encourage him to turn and meet his gaze.

“Hey,” Greg said, raising his free hand to Mycroft’s face, “tell me what you want.”

Mycroft hesitated a moment before saying, “I would like a shower, actually.” Greg remembered while he had washed away the crime scene, Mycroft had not. He had not been as intimately involved in processing it, of course, but the smell and sense of it was as much as the physical odour.

“Sure.” Greg replied, a smile crossing his lips. “Did you want company, or privacy?” He didn’t feel awkward at this question; either was fine with him, and Mycroft’s response either way would not send him questioning their relationship.

“Company would be lovely.” Mycroft replied quietly. His eyes were so expressive now, Greg wondered, looking deeply into those deep pools of blue. Mycroft’s gaze had only ever been direct when he’d been mocking, or deducing, or cataloguing a reaction to one of his measured barbs, Greg noticed. Now, he allowed his eyes to meet Greg’s without the protection of his vocabulary to shield himself. There was still a shade of apprehension, but it stood beside the strength Greg had admired, that had inspired his own show of trust. As Greg looked at him, Mycroft’s mouth turned up, lopsided and unsure. Without thought, Greg stepped forward, pressing his face into Mycroft’s shoulder as he gripped the back of the loose waistcoat, arms wrapped tightly around the slender body. Mycroft’s arms slid around his back, and they stood there, swaying slightly, holding each other closely, the understanding between them flowing without words.

Finally, Greg loosened his grip, caressing his fingers across Mycroft’s back. “Shower, then?” he asked. Mycroft nodded, and they moved to the ensuite, Greg following Mycroft’s lead. The shower was proportional to the bathroom, which meant it was huge, in ordinary terms. As Mycroft turned on the water, Greg pulled his jumper over his head and started on his buttons, eyes not leaving Mycroft, as he too began to undress. Even in this moment the intimacy allowed them to move without self-consciousness. In the past Greg had been too interested in seeing his partner’s body to be worried about his own, though he’d have happily covered his failings as soon as possible. Here and now with Mycroft, the two of them disrobing in the building steam, it felt more as though they were bringing down the last remaining barriers between them. Their naked bodies belonged together, yearned for each other, and the layers of clothes were simply keeping them apart. As he peeled off his socks and pants, Greg stood upright, eyes locked on the glorious stretch of masculinity in front of him – Mycroft. His eyes were roaming over Greg, and Greg felt his own eyes exploring Mycroft. He wanted to know how every inch looked; taste and feel would come in time, he knew. Mycroft was pale to Greg’s naturally olive skin; his skin was smooth, lacking the puckered scars that Greg knew accented his own body. The ginger hair and freckles became clearer as both men stepped in, drawn as though opposing magnetic poles. Mycroft’s finger traced the scar that crossed Greg’s collarbone, his head tilting as it did when he was trying to understand something.

“Broken collarbone. Plate and pins.” Greg answered the unspoken question quietly. He knew there would be time for sharing stories later, and indeed Mycroft had moved on, his outstretched finger leaving fireworks along the scars he found as he examined Greg’s torso and arms. Unable to resist, Greg brought his own hand up, pressing it over Mycroft’s heart, feeling the steady thump against his palm. He could feel the contrast between that softness and his calloused fingers; a subtle slide of his fingertips over the skin elicited a sharply indrawn breath and a stuttering halt of the hand tracing the knife scar over his ribs. Greg watched Mycroft swallow hard before long fingers encircled his wrist and guided him into the shower. The water was hot on his skin; he’d showered only a few hours ago, but that experience was lightyears from this. That perfunctory action, more a statement towards his personal hygiene, held nothing compared to this sensual moment. The spray of the water covered both of them, twin showerheads adjusted to hit both Mycroft and Greg on the back of the neck. It allowed the almost-scalding water to run down their backs and chests, rivulets of warmth that made Greg close his eyes at the touch. Forcing himself to open his eyes, he watched Mycroft, who had succumbed to the same temptation, eyes closed and head tilted back so the water hit his head and face. He looked so peaceful, Greg thought, more relaxed than he’d ever appeared.

Picking up the body wash that sat on the recessed shelf, Greg flicked the cap open and poured some onto the loofah. The smell was familiar, spreading quickly in the humid atmosphere. It was one of the many layers of scent he associated with Mycroft; the sweeter of the notes, vanilla and honey, that lay beneath his aftershave and the mysterious additional scent Greg suspected was simply the man himself. Reaching out now, Greg rested the loofah on Mycroft’s shoulder, not wanting to startle him. The smile and sigh of contentment was consent; Greg started slowly rubbing the body wash across Mycroft’s shoulders and chest, watching in fascination as bubbles formed and were washed down pale skin. He worked his way down long arms, washing away the traces of crime scene, the now familiar pattern of freckles on Mycroft’s forearms making him smile. Taking one clean hand in his own, Greg lifted it, sucking the thumb into his mouth briefly, before submitting each finger to the same attention. Mycroft’s breathing hitched then deepened, the mark of a man exerting control, Greg thought. As he worked down the other arm, the anticipation built until he lifted the second hand, deliberately hesitating before taking the thumb into the warmth of his mouth. This time an audible groan fell from Mycroft’s mouth, and the anticipation, which Greg had assumed was leading to this moment, heightened, colouring the intimacy with a decidedly sexual overtone. His own gut twisted at the sound Mycroft had made, his cock twitching upwards from the half-hearted erection he’d maintained since they had stripped outside the shower. Mycroft lifted his head and opened his eyes, now darkened to midnight, pupils blown wide. His gaze was piercing, catching Greg and pinning him. Adjusting to the new situation, Greg continued his plan, taking and releasing each finger in turn, never looking away from Mycroft’s eyes. At each contact, Mycroft gasped again, until he was practically hyperventilating.

“Steady, love,” Greg murmured, caressing his face. He daren’t look down, but if his own hardness was any indication, Mycroft would surely have an impressively full erection by now. The last thing he wanted to do was push him over the edge too soon. Taking the loofah again, Greg continued his earlier work, slicking bubbles across Mycroft’s chest before turning him around, sliding the loofah over smooth shoulders. He traced the vertebrae downwards, sliding over Mycroft’s arse, earning another gasp for his troubles. Mycroft turned back of his own volition, and Greg took the loofah to rest against his belly button, squeezing soapy water out, watching it course southwards. The bubbles tangled in the ginger curls at the base of Mycroft’s cock, which bobbed under Greg’s scrutiny. Giving in to temptation, Greg dropped the loofah, his soapy hand curling around Mycroft’s shaft. He anticipated Mycroft’s weak knees and looped his other arms around his waist, murmuring, “I’ve got you,” as their wet bodies pressed together. Thinking as he was of Mycroft’s pleasure, an “OH!” exploded out of him as he felt Mycroft’s fist firmly around his own cock.

“Actually I think we’ve got each other.” Mycroft half-whispered, and Greg huffed out a laugh at the joke. His laugh turned into a gasping moan as Mycroft’s fingers slid up and down his cock, the craving spreading through his body like wildfire. He jerked his own hand, matching Mycroft’s rhythm until they moved and gasped in unison. Greg knew he was close, that after such an emotional build up he would last no more than a few moments. He was not surprised when the wildfire coalesced sharply in his groin and he felt the familiar moment of blankness before the explosion, his hips stuttering, body clenching as he spurted trails of white along Mycroft.

“Mycroft, Mycroft...” Greg moaned, hand flying over the other man’s cock. When he felt it start to pulse, his moans changed to, “Yes, come for me, yes, yes, come for me…” From the tension and trembling, he assumed Mycroft had come on him somewhere, though the warm come didn’t register on his hot skin. As Mycroft’s muscles relaxed against him, Greg fitted their bodies together, returning to the same hug they shared earlier. He’d thought there was no way to top that intimacy, and yet here they were. Mycroft was breathing heavily, little gasps still puffing against Greg’s skin, his fingers splayed against Greg’s back. They stood, water pulsing against their backs until Greg realised that in their current position, their spent cocks were hanging beside one another. As their bodies shifted weight, so their cocks brushed against each other, the soft skin barely whispering past, teasing and tantalising. The moment he became aware of that, Greg’s cock started responding, clearly stimulated by the gentle caresses. It wasn’t until his hands, tracing slow circles on Mycroft’s back, drifted lower, resting on Mycroft’s arse, that Greg noticed that he was not the only one whose body was interested in further exploration. Mycroft turned his head, lips tracing along Greg’s ear, making Greg’s breath hitch at the same teasing touch at the other end of his body.

“I’m not sure how you feel about it,” Mycroft murmured, “but I would dearly love to have you inside me, Greg.” His voice was deep and raw, reminding Greg of the shout that had torn from him as he came. Greg swallowed hard, imagining sinking into the tight heat of Mycroft’s body. He felt the clench of his lower abdomen, hoarse groan sounding at the idea.

“Yes,” Greg breathed, pulling back to look at Mycroft, “I’d say your bed would be a better spot for that though.” Mycroft’s answering smile was breathtaking. They turned off the water and towelled down with rough, imperfect strokes, discarding the towels on the floor, breathing hard from exertion and anticipation. Mycroft stepped forward and Greg met him in the middle, leaning in to kiss the lips that had made the suggestion to deepen their bond even further. Mycroft kissed back, their tongues stroking, their action reminiscent of the stroking just moments earlier in the shower. The thought made Greg shiver, and Mycroft pulled back, looking at him tenderly.

“You’re alright?” Mycroft asked. Greg smiled, taking his hand and leading the way into Mycroft’s bedroom. They kissed again standing at the end of the bed, a slow exploration, bodies brushing, cocks slipping against each other as they swayed in a silent dance. There was no rush, only a smooth build as their rhythm grew with each passing caress and whisper. Greg kissed down Mycroft’s neck, noting each freckle, murmuring affection and admiration into his skin with each passing centimetre. Mycroft’s hands were learning the curve of Greg’s back, the shape of the scar over his kidney; the peculiar lack of sensation over the scar tissue sent further shivers across Greg, and he scraped his teeth across Mycroft’s collarbone, hoping to distract him enough to still his fingers. It worked, those fingers clenching into his sides instead.

“Bed?” Mycroft suggested, and they tumbled sideways, landing in a mess of arms and legs.

Greg stroked Mycroft’s face as he admitted, “I’m not sure how long I’ll last, you know.”

Mycroft smiled. “Oh, I know. Me, too.”

“Have you done this before?” Greg asked. “Might be better to go slow, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I haven’t brought anyone in here before.” Mycroft repeated the admission he’d made earlier. **“In fact, I’ve not been with anyone for a while, but I have a lovely selection of toys.”** Greg’s heart dropped a little at the beginning of Mycroft’s sentence, then stuttered, then started pounding as he pictured Mycroft pleasuring himself, something wide sliding slowing in and out of him…

“Oh…” Greg groaned, the open expression on Mycroft’s face adding fuel to the already raging fire in his veins. Mycroft’s admission was without shame or guilt, another example of the honesty with which he’d clearly decided to entrust Greg. As Greg continued to envision Mycroft alone in his bed, the real life Mycroft reached into a bed side drawer and removed a condom and a bottle of lube. He sat up, kneeling in the middle of the bed, smiling patiently at Greg. For his part, Greg scrambled to his knees, kissing Mycroft with abandon. He straddled Mycroft’s thigh, rutting against the strong muscle, the friction delicious against his straining erection.

Mycroft grunted, gripping Greg’s hip with one hand, pressing the bottle of lube into his chest. “Now is good.” He said, shifting his weight so they fell sideways, his leg winding around Greg’s hip. Greg extracted one hand, allowing Mycroft to pour a pool of lube into his palm. Without pause, Greg reached around, placing his palm on Mycroft’s perineum, pressing the cool liquid against warm skin. He chuckled a little at the indignant yelp, which turned into a strangled groan as Greg swiped two fingers through the wetness, coating them before they sought the entrance to Mycroft’s body. As Mycroft assured him, the muscle gave easily, allowing his fingers to press inside. They groaned together, the sound mingling as a promise to the meeting of their bodies in the near future. Mycroft pressed his face into Greg’s temple, his body sliding upwards, allowing Greg to press his fingers further inside. Greg felt they were locked together, shifting as slick fingers moved in and out, cocks rubbing against stomach and thigh; he’d lost all sense of time as he withdrew to coat a third finger before stretching Mycroft again, the whine that escaped sending a winding cord of heat through his body. He would wait until Mycroft was ready, he’d vowed to himself, though the vow was precariously thin when Mycroft finally whimpered, “Please Greg, oh please, fill me up, I want you inside me…”

“How do you want to?” Greg asked, squeezing the base of his cock, hoping he could keep it together for at least a few moments of bliss encased in Mycroft. Mycroft rolled onto his knees and took a deep breath, eyes closed. Greg took the opportunity to roll a condom on himself, slicking it over with lube and thinking of the scene he’d attended that morning to avoid any premature endings.

“Sit against the headboard.” Mycroft said, eyes boring into Greg’s. Greg climbed up, winding one hand around the back of Mycroft’s head, kissing him fiercely before complying, facing Mycroft, breath coming in pants. Mycroft leaned forward onto his hands, stalking him like a big cat, Greg thought. Predatory. Greg could only wait while Mycroft straddled him, eyes never breaking contact as he found Greg’s cock, gripping the base as he lined up the tip with his relaxed entrance. Greg’s eyes were wide as they froze like that, poised for an eternity until Mycroft sank down, Greg’s cock breaching his body, the tight heat overwhelming him.

“Christ…” Greg ground out, eyes closing at the sensations flooding his body and mind. He and Mycroft were joined, as close as they could meld their bodies, he thought dazedly, arms wrapping around Mycroft, pulling him close to settle against Greg’s thighs. Mycroft’s arms wound around Greg’s shoulders, too, this new embrace so intimate and _right_ that Greg felt his eyes prickling. He’d had his share of sex, but the layers of intimacy they’d built over these few hours lent such intensity and meaning to this act that it shook his very being. This was the physical embodiment of their trust and affection, the combined fortification against the weaknesses and self-doubts they had shared and accepted of each other. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the moisture pushed past anyway, falling on Mycroft’s chest.

The first flicker of embarrassment nipped at Greg before Mycroft kissed his head and whispered, “Me, too.” The break in his voice told Greg that the emotion had overtaken Mycroft too; their connection was a meeting of equals, a pact to heal each other. With a sigh, Greg shifted his hips, and Mycroft met his movement, their rhythm slow, though the heat had been quelled a little by the emotional overload. Stoking the fire took only a moment, especially when Greg tilted his hips, brushing Mycroft’s prostate. The gasp-clench-groan response kicked Greg’s desire up and up, and he repeated the action, watching Mycroft’s face as the ecstasy took him over the edge. Long fingers dug into his shoulders, the twinge of his bad collarbone nothing in comparison to the wonder of Mycroft as his body flew into oblivion. Stripes of come on Greg’s body felt warm this time, though he had only a moment to register it before his own orgasm tore him apart, the squeeze of Mycroft around his cock pushing him firmly beyond his limit. He shuddered, pressing against Mycroft, clutching him close as the waves rolled through his body.

Slowly, Greg became aware of himself again. Mycroft was slumped against him; the weight was comforting, the gentle puffs of air down his shoulder blade tickling a bit. Regretfully, Greg slid his hips sideways, allowing himself to slip out of Mycroft. He tied off the condom and padded to the bathroom, discarding it and grabbing a flannel. Once he was clean he returned to the bed, smiling at the sight of Mycroft curled up in the warmth Greg had just left. He wiped gently at the sticky mess on Mycroft’s stomach, throwing the flannel on the bedside table and climbing into bed alongside him.

“Hey,” Greg murmured as Mycroft opened his eyes.

“Hello.” Mycroft replied, his face serious. He sought Greg’s hand, winding their fingers together and cradling them at his chest, kissing Greg’s fingers.

“Fireworks.” Mycroft said quietly.

“Fireworks.” Greg agreed. Right now, there were no other words. Two imperfect men together in this perfect moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sentence in bold is taken (with permission) from scarletmanuka's amazing Mystrade story, [The Weight of History](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8244632). Head over there to read this one, it is truly worth it! Thank you for allowing me to use this in my story.
> 
> Well that was a looong chapter! I wanted it to follow on from the previous with more exploration of their changed perspective, rather than a quick shag. Apologies for the wait, but it needed to be a worthy ending to this short story. Hopefully it does the previous chapters justice! Thank you for sticking with it, I hope you have enjoyed the last chapter for this version of our boys. <3


End file.
